Suffocation
by Pixel Whipped
Summary: Roger is having terrible nightmares; maybe he should have died. Spoilers from Firey Cross. Roger/Bree


The night was dark, heavy, consuming; he could feel it all around him, dragging him down into a salty abyss of which he couldn't find an escape. He screamed, nobody heard him...like his voice was gone. Was it? He screamed again, but nobody came. Hands grasped onto the one thing he could find to bring himself comfort, but alas, nothing would ease that feeling of choking to death. He fought against that feeling of being pulled under, focused on the things that brought him life, tried to find a reason to hold fast. Still, that darkness was relentless...and before he knew it, he was pulled under.

Roger awoke in a cold sweat, sitting upright in the bed. Bree was still peacefully beside him, unaware, unfaltering and uncaring to his precarious situation. She was so used to Jemmy kicking her in her sleep that she probably didn't think twice when he tried to reach out for something to hold onto. There was a perfect kind of stillness in the air, the kind of summer heat that was not too sweltering and not too cold, like sticking a foot out from under a blanket when it was too hot. His gaze was on his wife, curled perfectly in the bed, her hands resting under her cheek to cradle her features. _God_, she was too good for him. And what was he?

A monster.

He took a sharp breath, something he'd taken for granted but hadn't really grown accustomed to again. After Claire had removed the Tracheostomy from the botched hang-job, he was sure that he'd never breathe on his own again; never speak, never sing, never say his son's name..._Bree_. How much was _she _suffering but didn't show it? His hand reached up to gently touch the scar. There were deep inset ridges where the rope had damn-near succeeded in strangling the life out of him; smaller little marks that barely broke skin where it splintered off like lighting bolts...those were the spots where the rope was still not worn properly. His fingers pressed into the scar until he was forced to suck in another breath.

Claire kept telling him that Jemmy was young yet, he wouldn't notice the scars on his father's throat, he wouldn't know why his father carried such sadness with him, or the fact that he'd shaken hands with death and told him he wasn't ready yet. Jemmy wouldn't see those marks or ask questions...she'd prepared him when he came from surgery, telling him that everything would be fine. But Jemmy asked questions...and everything wasn't fine. He'd survived, but so much of him had been lost in the process.

Jemmy wouldn't look at him anymore without that tilted expression of confusion, and Bree barely grazed his throat while shaving him when his hands were unsteady. He always had this unruly patch under his jaw where she just hesitated to get too close for fear of bringing back traumatic memories. Things _had _changed, and they were treating him as if he wasn't human anymore. The fact remained that he was human, and he'd suffered a great deal for reasons beyond his own comprehension. Reasons he'd get revenge for if he had his way about it.

His fingers traced the scar from one end to the other, his fingertips lightly brushing over the stitches where the emergency Tracheostomy had been at one time. Who knew that a short little tube like a straw would be what stood between him and certain death? His hand dropped to his side and he looked into the mirror. He was a monster, and he had no way to convey those feelings to his family besides pen and paper - which he was never in short supply of.

He decided to let Bree sleep a bit longer before she'd have to get up and do her daily routine. Opening the animal-hide curtain, he pressed a hand to his temple before dipping his quill into the ink and writing a short letter. Bree had a diary, he had what was called a _burn book_, but not like those really stupid ones from movies - his was a diary as well, but everything in it got destroyed. He wrote on the pages every night until he would run out of ink and have to wait for a new shipment. But today, today he was writing on one page of parchment.

_Dear God,_

_What did I do to deserve this? Wouldn't it have been easier to let me die back there? I have served you faithfully and dutifully since childhood, and now you punish me for such? Is this my penance for defying the laws of time? I beg of you, if you must punish me further, then please take everything from me. But for all that is living, do not hurt my family._

_I will continue to serve you as I have in the past, for only you know where this needle will land on my compass. But if I must die, I request it be a quick death...suffering is a heroes demise, and I am no hero._

_-Roger_

There was a moment where he considered folding it up and tucking it neatly in his desk drawer to remind him of what he'd endured, but instead, he balled it up in his hand and held it over top of the lantern. From the corner of his eye, he could see a small body stirring beside his mother, fingers rubbing groggily at his eyes. Within a few short seconds, the child was crying. He wanted to say _hey kiddo, it's okay, da's here_, but his voice betrayed him and nothing came out but a gasp of air. With a frown, he reached down to pick up Jemmy into his arms, cradling the young child to his side.

He brushed the young child's unruly locks out of his eyes and kissed his head, but the crying didn't cease. Of course not, Roger used to sing him to sleep, and he couldn't do that anymore. Whenever Jeremiah was sad, Roger would think back to those old hymns that the Father would hum to him, singing them to the infant to help him back into a slumber. But now Jemmy was a toddler, he rarely had bad dreams in the night. Roger hadn't had to fight those demons in some time and it was painfully evident.

He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes, rocking Jemmy in his arms, humming - though painfully - an old song from his childhood. It was sharp at points, picked up in others, and missed a few notes - in fact, it hurt Roger's soul as a singer. But it seemed to work on Jemmy in easing him back to slumber. He pressed a gentle kiss to his son's forehead and held him tight in his arms, resting against the chair with his eyes closed, his son's face pressed to his chest.

_Dear God,_

_Thank you for sparing my life._

_-Roger_

Maybe some things didn't change after all - a son still needed his father and a wife still needed her husband.


End file.
